Icarus
by maxwellandlovelace
Summary: An exploration of Peeta's mind during some of his time in the Capitol, and arrival in Thirteen.


**Trigger warning: torture**

* * *

I'm not alive, yet my body still clings to the world of the living.

The blue lines on my forearm could've looked like a roadmap if the color wasn't so uneven and ragged. The thin, red cuts crossing them in sharp angles could've been trails if they weren't so short and straight. I used to be able to feel the lumpy surface, but my fingertips are too numb to distinguish the patterns on my skin. Breaking my nails, I scratched the wall in desperate attempts to keep focused on _something_. _Anything._

Pain works. Pain is good.

I've gotten used to the smell, but every time they bring me back here, it invades my nostrils, sending a wave of disgust to my brain and I have to suppress the gag reflex. The odor is a strange mix of sewer, sweat, blood, and… something burnt?

 _Rain. Two wet, dark braids clinging to her neck and shoulders._

A wailing cry somewhere in the distance. I can't tell who it is, but I'm beyond the point of caring anymore. I want it to stop. I want everything to stop. A flash of light almost blinds me when I tilt my head, hitting the stonewall behind me. My eyes automatically fly open. _No._ No one's here. I'm alone. Just like I've always been.

The joints in my neck snap when I turn my head, but I don't feel it. Not anymore. My entire body is numb, like the tips of my fingers. The wall is covered in blood, my blood, dried and brown, making it impossible to make out from its background.

It looks tempting. One quick blow and all this would be over. I could slam my head against the wall with the last strength in me, and that would be it. I wouldn't have to wake up to this, knowing that the only thing the day holds for me is more suffering. More pain.

But I'm too tired. I'm so tired…

* * *

Someone is dragged along the corridor. The left leg is missing so it must be me. My right foot paints a red streak, the ragged floor breaking the skin and drawing blood. They let me keep the prosthetic on until the area where it was connected got infected, and I couldn't support myself on it anymore. So they ripped it off. I didn't notice until I woke up the next day. Or night. I don't know the difference.

When the floor underneath me changes to cool, white tile, and the lighting becomes an intense light blue I know where I am. They always take me here. I'm strapped down to a bed, my arms to the side and my leg secured by the foot of the bed. I don't know why they bother—I'd be surprised if I managed to get off the bed without assistance. The room is all white, a welcoming contrast from my cell, with only a bed, instruments, and a mirror on the wall. It's too big to be a normal mirror—someone's on the other side. Watching. But I'm grateful I can't see who, or how many. Or why.

I get a glimpse of myself. What's left of me. A collection of organs on autopilot with no destination, and no purpose, miraculously keeping a shell of what was once human alive.

I'm naked, save for the thin fabric covering my groin. Like I care. Nudity doesn't bother me. It never has.

" _I don't care if you see me."_

Bruises, lacerations, and something that looks like burns create a patchwork of different colors on my upper body. I don't remember the burns. In the beginning I knew how I got each mark, every hit, and every cut, but I can't keep track anymore.

Sweat, blood, and dirt have turned my previously blonde curls several shades darker. The blue circles underneath my eyes, and red marks on my face complete the sad image in the mirror—a naive boy who wanted to much, aimed too high, and is now crashing down into an ocean of hopelessness and apathy. Drowned by his own arrogance. I would have laughed at the irony of it all if my muscles weren't so sore.

Blue and red lines from where my leg should have been travel up my thigh.

" _I know what blood poisoning is. Even if my mother isn't a healer."_

 _Warm, soft lips on my forehead. A single braid slipping through my fingers. A soothing hand on my cheek. I'm so tired. Water trickling down the wall of a cave. Glistening. Dripping. Drip. Drip._

Snap. A waving hand in front of my eyes brings me back from my dream. "Wake up, rat!" It's always someone new. He shoves a needle through my arm. It's already covered in track marks, but he doesn't care. They never do.

An intense pain surges through me as the liquid is pushed into my veins. I try to count the black lines on the syringe to focus on anything but the pain. But light in the corners of my eyes invades it, eases it. Maybe this is the day. Maybe this is the day they finally let me die.

* * *

I recognize the room. White tiles, fluorescent light, and machines. My vision is blurry but I know where I am. New people again.

"He's waking up." _Unfortunately._

A bright light flashes in my eyes and I instinctively close them again. Something touches my arm and I want to yank it away, but I can't move.

"Peeta. You were rescued. You're safe."

No. I'm not safe. I've never been. My life has never been mine.

It's just another one of their tricks. I won't fall for it again. They did it when they brought in the redheads. That was what they called them. Along with other names I can't remember. I was so relieved to see familiar faces that I didn't realize why they were there. She was the lucky one, but they tortured him for hours. They made me watch them cut off his body parts, one by one. Like he had any information. Of course he didn't.

"This is what happens when you cross the Capitol," they whispered in my ear. But I was jealous of them. I wish they would've done the same to me.

I will myself to not look at the new people. Whatever new they have in store for me I'd rather not know. I wait. But nothing happens. I feel nothing. I hear nothing. Nothing except whispers. "She's on her way here and she wants to see him."

 _Who?_

"I don't think he's in a condition to see anyone right now. To be honest, I'm surprised he's still alive." _So am I._

"She's _the_ _Mockingjay_."

 _Who?_ What's happening? What mind tricks are they playing? What kind of reaction are they expecting from me?

Hands on my arms pull me up to a sitting position. I have no strength to put up a fight, but I force myself to open my eyes again. It's _not_ the same room. Three people are looking at me like I'm some sort of deranged animal they've just discovered—I probably am. Their attention shifts to the door. Automatically, I follow their gaze, and I see _her_.

I know it's her. She's been haunting my dreams for so long I'd recognize her _any_ where, in _any_ form. She almost looks human now, but she can't be trusted. She's responsible for all of this. She tried to kill me. She's a mutt, designed to kill me, to kill everyone.

Why isn't anyone stopping her? They said I was safe. Another lie. That's all they do. Lie.

A small smile settles on her lips, sneering at me. At how vulnerable and broken I am. My instincts automatically set in as she approaches me, and before she has a chance to put her filthy fingers on me, my hands lock around her throat.

She looks surprised. _Surprised that I'm still alive?_ She's underestimated me, and it will kill her. _I_ will kill her.

"Pe… Peeta," she wheezes.

 _Soft whispers in the night as rain patters on the window. Slender hands gripping my arms for security. Stolen kisses at a party. Kisses on a beach._

Lies. All lies. Everything that comes out of her mouth is a lie. She's evil, and she'll never be able to speak another lie again. Underneath my thumbs she's struggling to get air. Someone tugs at my shirt, but I'm filled with energy I didn't know I had when I feel her life slipping away. By _my_ hands.

 _Now_ , I am alive.

* * *

 **Author's note:** Please leave a review to let me know what you think. I'm also on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace).


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